Silence Is An Answer
by Misgiving Writer
Summary: As a kit, he wanted nothing more than to help his mother. As an apprentice, he wanted nothing more than to help his Clan, to be a great medicine cat. As a warrior, he is forced with a choice. For once, silence is the only answer.


A/N: Lookie here, another story written for the Warriors Challenge Forum! How unexpected! xD This one is for Reach For Me's Medicine Cat Hopes challenge. I hope this is a unique take on it, Reach!

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_"Momma?" Weaselkit asks, large blue eyes wide. "Why isn't Foxkit moving anymore?"_

_Emberflower stifles a yowl, clenching her green eyes shut. A mewl of pain forces its way out of her maw instead, slicing through the otherwise quiet air of the nursury. She doesn't answer her son, merely moves closer to the still she-kit._

_Foxkit is still nestled in her soft moss nest, curled up as though she was sleeping. Her muzzle is tucked inwards, towards her chest, and her warmth filled eyes are closed. But her flanks were still and she had gone cold - so very, very cold._

_"Momma?" Weaselkit repeats, tilting his head as does so. "What's wrong? You sound sad."_

_It isn't fair, Emberflower wants to say, for someone so young to have her life stolen so soon. For her darling little flower to never get the chance to be the amazing warrior she always dreamt of being. Foxkit was the dreamer of the litter - and the only she-cat. The only one that looked and sounded and thought like her mother._

_But she doesn't say any of that. Instead, she just turns her hollow gaze onto her only remaining kit and says, "She's dead."_

"Let all cats well enough to walk, gather before me!" Fallowstar bellows, and though it isn't the normal call, it catches everyones attention.

Those that aren't wounded too badly, like Grayfrost, whose hind-leg is broken in more than one place, begin to rise to their paws. The small action causes all of them pain and several have to drop back onto their stomach, too weak to take the few steps to their leader's side.

Weaselflame understands. He feels the same way. The long set of gashes on his left side burn, the once white fur there now matted crimson with his own blood. The skin along his back has been all but shreded, fur ripped out and flesh pulled back from bone. Every muscle aches, every step hurts.

But he pushes himself to all four anyways, and slowly moves to where his leader, battle-worn and weary, is standing proud.

_"Littlestep?" Weaselkit asks, pushing her head into the dark den of her Clan's medicine cat._

_Having never been sick, he's never been inside of here before. The smell of herbs and dried berries is strange. Not bad, he thinks, but different. It's nothing like the almost stale scent of the empty elders den or the warm scent the fills the nursury. _

_There's a rustle from the back of the den, and then a dark brown head emerges from some hidden nook. "What?"_

_Weaselkit doesn't answer right away. He shuffles his paws, three ginger, one white, and watches the small cloud of dust that they kick up. Here, in front of such a powerful and respected cat, he is suddenly at a loss for words._

_The dark brown tabby narrows his amber eyes and pads out from the shadows - bringing with him the heady scents of yarrow and chamomile. "What is it you want, kit?"_

_Another moment of silence. Should he really say something? Graypaw seems to think he should. And he is worried...Tilting his head slightly, he looks up at the aged medicine cat, blue eyes large and sad._

_"My momma won't speak to me, Littlestep." Weaselkit meows. "She just sits in her nest and stares at the ground...It's scaring me."_

_For a moment, Littlestep just stares at the ginger tom. Then his entire body seems to soften, eyes taking on a more gentle tone. He walks over to the small tom and, gently, uses his nose to nudge Weaselkit further into the den._

_"Come along, little kit." Littlestep says, voice heavy and tired. "I'll see if I can find anything for you to bring back to her."_

After the cats capable of moving gather around where Fallowstar stands, one hindleg held awkwardly off the ground, he dips his head at the assembled crowd - and there are so few, really. Too few. Many cats have died tonight. Many more have been injured.

And why? He doesn't know. Fallowstar cannot give his Clan an answer to that unasked question. He can only turn his gaze on them and try not to cringe when the scent of spilled blood becomes almost overwhelming.

"My Clan...My brave, fierce family. You have all fought so bravely tonight." Fallowstar says, and there's defeat in his voice, and sorrow. He sounds like a cat that has lost it all, not someone that has just led his Clan to victory. "I am so sorry that tonight ended the way it did..."

_"Hurry, Weaselpaw! I need more cobwebs!" Littlestep yowls, voice cracking. _

_Weaselpaw can't decide whether it's panic or age that causes it. He doesn't even really try to figure it out, just lets his paws carry him across the clearing and into the den he has come to call his own. The path to the back, where herbs are stored, is a familiar one and it takes almost no time for the tom to collect said object._

_He wraps it around his ginger tail, the fragile webbing blending in with the white tip, and then turns to rush back outside. Someone calls his name, but he doesn't stop. Can't stop. Not when Lilybloom's life depends on it. And not just hers, really, but also the life of her three new-born kits._

_Weaselpaw all but flings himself into the ferns that surround the nursury - and the scent of blood, thick and still coming greets him. He can also smell something else, dense and acidic and so very, very familiar._

_"Littlestep?" Weaselpaw asks softly, but he doesn't really need the older tom to answer. He knows that he wasn't quick enough. _

_Lilybloom has died._

_Her kits, however, have not._

_With no mate left alive to name them, that duty falls on Littlestep. He pads over to the smallest cat, a light cream she-cat. "Flowerkit."_

_Beside her, a fragile looking cream and black tom lays. "Pollenkit."_

_The third one, who is very still and very quiet, is a pure black. "Bloomkit."_

_And the names suit them, really. Weaselpaw nods at his mentors choice, tail twitching slightly. They are lovely kits, truly. But he pities them because, if nothing else, he knows what it is like to grow up without a mother._

"We were attacked without any warning." Fallowstar says, his eyes scanning the small group before him. "But I could have called a retreat. I could have...Could have saved so many, kept so many from feeling the pain of death. I didn't though, and for that I have to apologize."

Silence greets his words. Weaselflame knows that the Clan doesn't truly blame the aged leader, how could they? He has led them to so many victories, so many won battles, saved so many lives...No one can blame him for one wrong choice.

The young warrior also knows that they need _someone_ to blame - and it is easy to place that on Fallowstar, when he is already taking the blame on himself. Later, they will assure their leader that all is well. Now? Now they will let their silence be an answer.

"The grey dogs were strong. Stronger then I thought they would be." Fallowstar continues, and now he bows his head in sorrow. A trickle of blood trails down the tom's face, running from a shredded ear and down onto a clawed nose.

Vaguely, Weaselflame wonders why neither Littlestep nor Pollenpaw has done anything to help him yet.

_"He's blind, Weaselpaw." Littlestep says, tail dragging against the ground behind him. "I'm too old to deal with two apprentices."_

_There's sorrow in the older tom's eyes, but the young apprentice doesn't see it. He doesn't see anything. Doesn't feel anything. Doesn't know anything. _

_All he registers is the bitter tinge of betrayel._

"We have lost so many cats..." Fallowstar finally says - and with this comment, his eyes flicker to the face of each remaining cat. They rake over every injury, memorize every wound, reflect the pain that is in each Clanmate's eyes. "I cannot even begin to list them all. Not now. Not when we have not yet had our wounds looked at."

Here, he's interrupted. Meadowlark, a black and cream she-cat, pushes herself to her paws. Her tail drags on the ground, mangled and still seeping blood, her chest is stained red. Her light green eyes are filled with agony but she still takes a few unsteady steps towards the older tom.

"Falllowstar,' she asks, voice hoarse from screaming earlier. 'why _haven't_ we been looked at yet? Where's Littlestep? Pollenpaw?"

Silence is their only answer.

Fallowstar closes his eyes and turns his head away from the she-cat, tucking his chin against his matted chest fur.

_"I know this isn't the path that you wanted to take, Weaselpaw, but I hope we can still work something out." Bramblethorn meows, golden eyes hopeful._

_Weaselpaw just stares at him, silent, appraising. The older tom is right, of course. The path of a warrior is not the one that he has wanted to take. But what he can he do, when his dreams have been ripped away from him?_

_Nothing but adapt._

"They didn't make it." He meows after a moment - and his voice cracks halfway through the words, too overwhelmed with grief to even attempt to be strong. "Littlestep was slain trying to help Swiftclaw, Pollenpaw when he tried to get to the nursury."

Panicked yowls fill the camp as the injured cats try to struggle to their paws. A jolt of...something...goes through Weaselflame, and for a moment he wants to say that it's fear. Deep inside, he knows that isn't it.

It's satisfaction. Approval. _Ironic_, his mind supplies, _it's ironic._

"How are we going to survive without a medicine cat?" Badgerfoot howls, fear lacing his words. Several cats echo his concern - and then Weaselflame is aware of his leader looking in his direction.

_No_, Weaselflame wants to say, _I will not do it! I will not give up my life a second time, not when I have finally adjusted to being a warrior!_

"Do not fret, my strong Clan. We will survive." Fallowstar tells them, and there is hope in his eyes when he does. "Weaselflame...For almost nine moons, you were trained by Littlestep. At this time, when we have no other cat to turn too, will you take up the position of Medicine Cat? Will you save your Clan?"

For a long time, their only answer is silence. Then Weaselflame struggles to his paws, breath coming in pain-filled gasps, and he looks up at his leader.

_No,_ his eyes say, _I will not, not this time_.

"Of course, Fallowstar. I would be honoured too." Weaselflame rasps out, but his voice? It is empty.

It is worse than the silence that once surrounded his Clan.


End file.
